


Revelations

by rain_sleet_snow



Series: Hotspots [1]
Category: Primeval
Genre: Gen, Male-Female Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-06
Updated: 2013-07-06
Packaged: 2018-03-08 16:29:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3215873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rain_sleet_snow/pseuds/rain_sleet_snow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every friendship has to start somewhere, even if it is with a compulsory non-disclosure policy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Revelations

**Author's Note:**

> Aethelflaed Morris is my pet archaeologist from Rex Quondam, Rexque Futurus, a straightforward teamfic about time-travelling King Arthur. This is a preseries snapshot of her and Becker making friends for the first time. For anyone confused by the (brief, I swear) Lord of the Rings references: Orlando Bloom played Legolas in the Peter Jackson films, Beren and Lúthien are a grand human/elf romance from the Silmarillion meant to parallel Aragorn and Arwen, and Erendis is a badly-treated wife from the Silmarillion. (Tar-Aldarion was a colossal jerk.)

            “I’m Orlando,” said the nervous fresher at the Lord of the Rings Society freshers’ week meeting, “and I’m at Christ Church, and I do History.”

 

            “I’m Chandra, and I’m at St Hilda’s, and I do Maths…”

 

            “Georgie, Jesus, Greats…”

 

            “Morris, Merton, Archaeology and Anthropology,” said one girl with plaited sandy hair and unflattering glasses, prompting a brief crisis in the introductions.

 

            “What about your first name?” said the society president, clearly nonplussed. “I mean – did you say your name was Maurice? Uh, that’s not usually -”

 

            “M O R R I S is my surname,” said the girl.

 

            “And you wouldn’t prefer –”

 

            “I don’t like my first name.”

 

            “Nicknames -?”

 

            “If you’re prepared to call him Orlando and not make Legolas jokes, I think you can call me Morris.”

 

            Orlando looked deeply wounded.

 

            “Sorry,” Morris added, still looking mutinous.

 

            Becker, who had been listening to this by-play with increasing interest – in fact, it was the only thing he’d been listening to with interest, since he’d actually been in search of the Chess Society, had got into the wrong meeting, and wasn’t sure how to extricate himself politely – cleared his throat. “Becker, Merton, Anglo-Saxon, Norse and Celtic.”

 

            The society president floundered a bit, and the girl called Morris developed a small smile. Becker offered her a rather lopsided one of his own. “I don’t like my first name, either. And I don’t have nicknames.”

 

            Morris beamed.

 

***

 

            “Survived the term,” Becker said cheerfully, slinging an arm over Morris’s shoulders in order to keep her upright. For reasons best known to themselves the Lord of the Rings Society drank a lot of mead at their Christmas do, and Morris was a lot smaller and less accustomed to alcohol than him.

 

            “Mm,” Morris said, swaying slightly. Becker fetched her a glass of water and tugged her down to sit next to him on the floor. “Thought Mary wasn’t going to, though.”

 

            “Who? Oh. She’s fine.” Becker caught the society president’s eye and waved. He’d almost forgotten Mary’s actual name. She had a terrible habit of referring to herself as Lúthien, although matters had taken a turn for the Erendis lately, since her boyfriend had started sleeping his way through the women’s rowing team of his college and Mary had cast him into the outer darkness. (Becker and Morris were strongly of the opinion that the offending Beren hadn’t actually noticed this as much as Mary thought he had, but they certainly weren’t going to say so.)

 

            “She thinks we’re dating,” Morris disclosed. She was sitting on his lap with her head resting on his shoulder, so Becker saw Mary’s point.

 

            “Oh? Doesn’t she know I’m gay?”

 

            Morris shook her head solemnly.

 

            “Silly woman.”

 

            “I feel sick.”

 

            “I _told_ you, a glass of water after every cup of mead. Well, if you’re going to be sick, don’t be sick on me.”

 

            There was a comfortable pause, during which Becker snagged Orlando by the ankle and got him to bring Morris a rubbish bin, just in case.

 

            “Tell you a secret, Morris,” Becker said absently.

 

            “Mm?”

 

            “My name is Hilary.”

 

            “Oh,” Morris said, and was heartily sick.

 

            “I told you so,” Becker said severely.

 

           

            The next morning, Morris appeared at his door at a surprisingly early hour, looking unsurprisingly pale and woebegone.

 

            “Fried breakfast,” Becker said kindly.

 

            Morris blinked at him owlishly. “Aethelflaed.”

 

            “Huh?”

 

            “ _Aethelflaed_ ,” Morris repeated impatiently. “Don’t make me say it again!”

 

            “Oh. Okay.” Becker clapped on the back. “Come on, Morris. Let’s get some food inside you before you’re sick again.”


End file.
